


My blood is a flood of rubies, it keeps my veins hot

by Chaosandgunpowder



Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alex is a manic lawyer, Alternate Universe - Mob, Blood, Explicit Language, M/M, Modern Era, Sexual Content, They're both twisted little bastards, Thomas is a mob boss, Thomas is never not a hopless romantic, Violence, even in this verse, in a big way, thomas pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26629441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chaosandgunpowder/pseuds/Chaosandgunpowder
Summary: He and Alex are fire and blood and passion and beautiful crimson and Thomas is so focused on how good it is that he’s entirely, completely blindsided when it’s unexpectedly gunned for; so thrown by it that it takes him far too long to figure out what’s happened because he’s stuck onconfusion.~[One-shot accompaniment set duringWe don’t need a globe to show you the world is oursft. mob-boss-Thomas and manic-lawyer-Alex] in which Thomas has no goddamn clue what’s pissed Alex off so much until he does.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Thomas Jefferson
Series: Carved in gold and ice (Jamilton mob!verse) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1930312
Comments: 26
Kudos: 137





	My blood is a flood of rubies, it keeps my veins hot

**Author's Note:**

> This will probably make more sense if you have read _We don't need a globe_ , because I didn't think there was much to be gained in rehashing the facts we already knew - much more interesting to take a walk in Thomas's overworking brain.

Thomas is always seeing red.  


He’s been seeing red for as long as he can remember. His father’s hands. His mother’s eyes. The angry tint his vision always got when someone interrupted him, or talked back to him, or looked at him funny.

Now _he’s_ the one in control he likes the colour; it’s violent and arousing in equal measure. He likes indulging that red mist behind his eyes, just a bit; the bruises and tears and screams when he does. He likes a little blood on his hands.

Sometimes he lets himself into Alexander’s apartment late at night, hands stained, and Alex will suck him off and moan while Thomas buries the blood of someone else in his messy hair, because Alex likes seeing red, too.

Alexander  _ is  _ red; his temper, his spark, his bruised tender flesh, his  _ blood _ on those occasions Thomas cuts him just a little, just how he likes, eyes rolled back in his head and shuddering under Thomas’s red hands and Thomas knows it’s less the cutting and more the sight of Thomas painted in his blood that brings him to the edge. Brings  _ both _ of them there because Thomas loves it too, watches him transfixed because he’s  _ perfect,_ and Thomas has always gotten half hard at the sight of blood, the baseness and violence of it, but Alex is more; the way Thomas wants him, loves him, it _feels_ red in his gut, hot and alive where Thomas is normally cold and hard and he gets to hold the essence of that, of Alex, in his hands. Gets to have Alexander’s burning fire smeared across his palms as he fucks him, gets to coat his fingers in parts of him no one else has ever touched as he touches parts no one else will ever touch again and they both come hard on it every time.

 _ They’re  _ red. He and Alex are fire and blood and passion and beautiful crimson and Thomas is so focused on how good it is that he’s entirely, completely blindsided when it’s unexpectedly gunned for; so thrown by it that it takes him far too long to figure out what’s happened because he’s stuck on _confusion. _

~~~

Thomas hates being confused.

Thomas is prepared, cautious and educated enough that lack of understanding is something he’s had very little experience of, but he’s had enough to know he doesn’t like it. It’s Alexander, of course. It’s always Alexander when it happens. There isn’t anything that truly throws Thomas off like Alex does and it’s compounded because it’s become rare of late. He’d thought he’d gotten over that seasick sensation of _what the fuck is happening here_ with a combination of exposure and learning to just not think about it too much, so it’s unnerving to have it wash over him again so strongly because it’s been a while.

It’s been five months since Thomas had stopped questioning why he wanted to put his dick in Alexander’s smart mouth whenever he ran it instead of a gun. Five months since he’d gone out and put his gun in three other mouths instead and reassured himself that _no, he really wasn’t going soft_ , that Alexander Hamilton was just a special brand of _something_ he’d never encountered before and probably never would again, grasped it tight with both hands and rolled with it.

It’s been one month since he’d thought he’d finally put most of his confusion to bed, since he’d managed to put a name to that twisting, writhing, thing inside him that seems to burn sweetly through his chest like cotton candy acid reflux whenever Alexander smirks or laughs or glares or drops to his knees or just fucking exists in the same space as him with those burning, dark eyes. One month since he’d turned to Alexander in the back of the car on the way to dinner, interrupted him in the middle of ranting about how fucking boring traffic violations were, frowned, said, _hey, I love you,_ and Alex had wrinkled his nose and said _obviously_ like Thomas was an idiot; like he’d not disrupted Thomas’s carefully honed equilibrium in a matter of months and then had carried right on disparaging New York City cab drivers. One month since Alex had tangled their legs together later that night, in the quiet early hours under soft sheets, melted boneless against him, smushed his face into Thomas’s neck and mumbled, _love you, Thomas, I love you_ and it wasn’t until then that he was glad of it because Thomas’s eyes suddenly burned a little wet, thankfully,  _ mercifully _ safe in the dark where not even Alexander was able to see it to prove it had ever even happened at all.

So it’s been long enough that Thomas isn’t expecting to be slapped in the face with _ confusion,_ but there it is, because he has no idea what the fuck has happened in the last twelve hours to warrant the angry, hard look on Alexander’s face being aimed directly at him, or the slamming of his doors like they’d personally insulted his boyfriend’s dead mother. It makes him feel stupid and off centre, unexpected as it is, and he flexes and relaxes his toes inside his shoes a couple of times as a distraction, focuses on that sensation to keep the discomfort calmly off his face while he considers the situation.

He can almost feel the heat of James glaring at him from his right, the implied _don’t_ so clear he might as well just say it aloud. Thomas ignores him. He hasn’t worked this hard or this dirty to get to where he is now, to _not_ do whatever the fuck it is he wants to do. He earns that right, every day. Besides, he thinks, as the decision solidifies, conceding to Alex here and now, purposefully showing a little _weakness_ in front of these assholes might shake something loose; there’s been enough whispering and tension in the air of late that he’s not particularly pleased with; there’s at least one or two disrespectful fucks at his table but he’s not completely certain of who's to blame. He needs them to make it obvious; say it to his face. If he gives them enough rope they might just hang themselves and give him a reason to make an example of them.

There has to be a clear reason. It’s one of his most basic rules. He thinks of it almost like a twisted form of parenting. _Be clear about what you want. Be clear about what will happen if you don’t get what you want. Follow through. Be clear about what you will tolerate and what you will not. Be consistent. Make it clear what the transgression is when a punishment is given._

It keeps order. There _has_ to be order here, otherwise he’s running a goddamn zoo and not a business. His incentives might be a little bloodier and base than the average corporate shill, but that fact still remains and he’s smart enough to understand that businesses function best when everyone knows what to expect, what is expected of them, and what the dire consequences are for not meeting those expectations. He can’t just go around randomly maiming every fucker who breathes too suspiciously; for one, he’d have nobody left, and for two, erratic, mercurial leaders never last too long. Consistency and order are what will keep him from ending up like his father, he knows this much. 

But if his rules are a little strict and his punishments a little harsh, that's his own business, no?

The rules have never worked with Alexander. Or rather, if he’s being more honest with himself, Thomas is incapable of following his own damn rules when it comes to Alex. He at least used to get through the first two before he stalled and relented, until even  _ be clear about what will happen if you don’t get what you want _ fell by the wayside as well, always torn to shreds with a wicked grin and  _ fucking do it then _ and ending with an inevitable and pointed lack of  _ follow through,_ until he’d quickly given up with that one too, because the one thing worse than not making good on his threats was making threats he damn well knew he wouldn’t keep. Thomas isn’t keen on setting himself up to fail. He hasn’t got time for self-recrimination.

The rules don’t apply to Alex. At least that has always been _consistent_.

So he’ll maybe give a bit here, try and force this situation to come to a head. He hopes that someone takes the bait so that he can justifiably make a point; cut them back down so that everyone is clear that nothing has changed for them; that Alexander is just so far removed from the rules that he may as well be living on another planet. He’s not going to say he won’t enjoy giving that well-deserved beating, because he will. He can already feel the stirring in his gut at the thought, but the rules help his discipline in this, too; he learned a long time ago that that angry red mist can’t be allowed to be in complete control of him. It’s unproductive and won’t get him what he wants.

Thomas is nothing if not dedicated to getting what he wants.

What he wants right  now is to know what’s changed in the last twelve hours. He runs over his day back and forth in his head from every angle quickly until he’s convinced he has no logical explanation for Alex’s behaviour and that confuses him all the more.  _ Twelve hours._ Twelve hours ago Alex had woken him with a hot mouth around his cock, swallowed him down and laughed  _ breakfast of champions _ afterward as Thomas jerked him off and kissed the taste of himself from Alex’s lips.

It had been a great way to start the day.

So, what the fuck.

_ What the fuck _ is accurate. It’s what Alex screeches at him almost the second Thomas closes the door behind himself, fists clenched tight and looking like he wants to swing for Thomas;  _ what the fuck, Thomas, what the fuck is wrong with you- _ and that’s rich, Thomas thinks, considering how fucking confused  he is and it gets his back up immediately. Thomas doesn’t lose control of his tongue on a whim but Alex is always the exception to the rule.

“Me? Oh nothing,” he snaps “I just _love_ being interrupted in the middle of dinner to be sworn at-“

“Oh fuck you. I can’t _believe_ you. Do you think I’m fucking _stupid_ -“

Thomas breathes deeply and focuses on the wisps of his hair at the very top of his head instead of on his face, because if he engages properly they’ll just go round in circles and he'll never understand. It’s not like they’ve never fought before; when Alexander is in a pissy mood he’ll fight him on _fucking everything,_ from the gifts Thomas has tried to buy him to the best restaurant between the townhouse and his apartment to the colour of his shirt, but something is different tonight and he needs to know what. In those fights Alex is full of grumpy, belligerent, sulky attitude that Thomas reluctantly finds cute - which doesn’t actually help him with  _ winning _ any of those fights - having that cruel little V in Alexander’s brow focused on him is new and unpleasant.

“Where do you get off  _ testing  _ me huh? What did I- I thought we- for _fuck's sake_ , if you’ve got a goddamn problem trusting me you can go fu-“

“How _dare_ you-“ Thomas immediately sees red, and all thoughts of not-engaging go out the window, infuriated shock and outrage coursing through him because Thomas’s entire _universe_ now somehow seems to balance on this fucking asshole and how is that not _trust?_ He’s got a best friend looking at him like he’s losing his goddamn mind and a dining table full of men he doesn’t think would bother to stem the bleeding if his throat got slit going around muttering things about Alexander that Thomas will make them regret if only he can hear them say it himself, all at the expense of the organisation he’s spent the last five years building, purely because of how much faith he’s placing in Alex, and the shit has fucking gall to suggest he doesn’t _trust_ him. 

It’s enraging and he tells Alex so, yells it at him from across the room _do you even know how fucking risky this is for me_ and _half of these bastards would put a knife in my back over you if I let them_ and _how fucking dare you say that, you ungrateful shit_ while Alexander snaps _maybe if you weren't such a fucking cock they wouldn't_ and calls him a _scheming, paranoid sonofabitch_ and he has to turn and put his fist into the side of a cabinet to vent the boiling pressure in his veins _(_ _not Alex, never Alex)._ He can see Alexander in his periphery, see how he doesn’t even flinch and it soothes him even as it irritates, the fact that Alex is confident even now they’re screaming that Thomas wouldn’t hurt him. He’s always been like that, seemed so sure of it and it used to confuse the fuck out of Thomas, because he’d laugh and say _fucking do it then_ like he’d known for sure that Thomas would somehow, inexplicably, rather put a bullet in his own foot than in Alex, even when Thomas didn’t. It had baffled him, how this guy could be _so_ certain until he realised that he wasn’t. At least not then. He wasn’t like Thomas who wouldn’t bet unless he was sure of the outcome. Alexander takes risks he’s not sure of and gets off on it; the uncertainty of it makes his being right feel like a win. Alexander _loves _ to win.

He’s right now as well though, Thomas would rather get splinters in his knuckles than put his hands on him in anger and isn’t that _hilarious_ , if his father could only see him now-

“Do you think you’re the only one who gets shit for this? That people are just _throwing me a fucking party_ over you?” Alex demands, hard faced and venomous and he’s shaking, his whole frame trembling and Thomas can’t tell if it’s in anger or something else but it’s enough to give him pause. “You think I’m not risking anything here? _Everything?_ That I’m not trusting you not to fuck me over either? How fucking dare you _test_ me-“ and it’s the second time he’s said that and he realizes Alexander thinks Thomas has done something he _hasn’t_ but he won’t let Thomas get a word in edgeways-

“What the _actual fuck_ are you talking about?” Thomas eventually manages to yell at him, wants to _shake_ him but keeps his hands where they are, fisted at his sides because he doesn’t really trust himself even if Alexander does and it would do more harm than good. Every inch of Alex is screaming _don’t fucking touch me_ and he hates it in his bones because it’s something his body has never said to Thomas before.

Alex scoffs and his face twists, but he holds out his hand and Thomas sees red again; Alex’s angry, flushed face and the blood smeared all over his hand from holding far too tight to the square-cut ruby in the centre of his palm.

“That’s _mine_ ,” Thomas says eloquently, blinking, and Alexander launches it right at his head, snarls  _ no shit _ as it misses and pings off across the room and _ Knox  _ and  _ trying to set me up  _ and Thomas stutters and freezes for a second as he processes, because all of a sudden he’s not confused anymore, understands exactly what's happened. It's a relief, even as he feels like there's a cold steel rod stiffening his spine and a brick in the pit of his stomach. 

Alex yells  _ of course it’s yours motherfucker I hope you fuckin choke on it-  _ and of course Alex has recognized it, because Thomas had had these out of the safe not three weeks ago to show him because he knows a few things about jewels and Alex had been assisting on a jewellery theft prosecution. Alex is gloriously focused and hungry and  _ fascinating _ when he’s learning and Thomas had loved having him perched up on his desk, swinging his legs, aiming all of that intensity directly at Thomas and not a book. It had been a good day.

It’s stained now, that memory, and he can see it in Alex’s face too, behind the anger, the sadness of having that day muddied and ruined. In fact now that he looks for it he can see his own internal pain at having someone he loves distrust him so much as to go behind his back reflected right back at him; Alex’s face tight with hurt and lashing out and it wounds Thomas somewhere deep that James has done this to the both of them.

His anger with Alex bleeds almost entirely away with his confusion, that frustrating lack of understanding that was fuelling him gone. His fury has settled down low and deep in his belly to aim at a more deserving target later, cool and controllable and familiar and he’s almost content to let Alex rant and cuss and burn himself out, weather his storm until he calms enough to talk about it until Alex spits something that snaps him to attention and his voice comes out dangerously quiet.

“Wait, he  _ hit _ you?”

“ _That’s _ what you’re gonna say?” Alex scoffs, eyes narrow. Thomas can see the push of his tongue as it presses gingerly at the inside of his lip reflexively and something cold settles on top of his chest. “Didn’t tell him to do that huh? Guess you don’t have as much control as you think.”

It stings because he’s right, again. He obviously doesn’t have the control he’d thought he did.  Thomas does reach for him then, to get hands on him, check him over to make sure he’s alright even though he can see already that there’s not even a bruise there but Alexander steps back, away from him, shakes his head.

“You know what, this is _bullshit._ I don’t think-” Alex swallows and takes another step back. “If you think that fucking little of me what the hell are we even doing? What’s the point-“

Something shutters horribly and blankly behind his eyes. It cuts him off and he’s weirdly _gone,_ like he’s a stranger, someone Thomas doesn’t know, like he’s not _Thomas’s_ anymore. It makes him want to throw up, because looking at him feels ironically like some part of his body might have been removed, like he’s trying to move his fingers and nothing’s happening, like Alex is a severed limb he can’t seem to connect to.

Thomas has wrapped a firm hand around his wrist and tugged him back before he even registers moving. Alex hisses in outrage and scrabbles at his arm, twists and lunges for him, catches him down the neck with sharp, ragged nails and it’s fair, Thomas lets him have it because he shouldn’t have touched. This is why he doesn’t do things on a whim, no forethought, because he doesn’t _thrive_ on it, he fucks it up, it always goes  _ wrong,_ but he can’t let go now. Alex might be spitting fire at him - _get the fuck off of me you fucking asshole what are you gonna do, huh - _ but he’s  there again, that barrier lifted; burning unfiltered and angry and volatile.

Alexander when he snaps is breathtaking;magnificent in his ferocity. That wild spark always flickering behind his eyes explodes and fans out until Thomas thinks if he could control such things with his mind he’d set the whole room on fire and let it burn to ash and both of them with it, damn the consequences.

Thomas could watch it all day, knew it was there, buried deep. He fantasises often about seeing the fullness of that wrath visited on a deserving body. He wants to see Alexander's own hands red, and he’s of the mind that if he ever gets to see that happen in person he might come in his pants. Or propose. Or both. Probably both, though he’s going to need Alex to calm the fuck down if that’s ever going to happen. 

Both the yelling and the breath whoosh out of Alexander’s chest when Thomas gets him up against the wall and hisses his innocence; _I didn’t, I didn’t, will you just fucking listen to me for a second you stubborn little shit-_

“What the fuck-“ Alex spits but he stops squirming abruptly. He's tensed and rigid up against Thomas but he's _still;_ Thomas has got his attention. He isn't dumb enough to think Alex wouldn't be trying to take his fucking face off right now if he hadn't. Thomas thinks he maybe wasn’t expecting a denial, only justifications and excuses, and his expression is a little desperate when faced with the possibility that he's wrong. He _wants_ to be wrong, Thomas realizes, and he relaxes in relief even before they’ve gotten to the crux of this, because he thinks Alex might choose to believe whatever the fuck he says right now as long as he makes it sound logically plausible, and so it's going to be fine. _They're_ going to be fine, because Thomas doesn't even have to lie. 

“I didn’t _do_ this. You think  _ I’m  _ that stupid? You think if I was going to set you up I’d be dumb enough to use something I fucking _showed you myself_ and expect you not to recognize it? Hell I offered to  _ give  _ you one of those things. You really think I don’t trust you? You see me checking you for weapons before I let you in my bed?” Alex makes a small, wounded noise and goes lax in his grip. Thomas lets go of his wrists, frames his face instead. “Jesus Alex you could slit my throat while I sleep anytime. You could go straight from here to work on any given day and ruin my entire life. Of course I trust you, you fucking idiot,  _I love you.”_

He says it again, forehead pressed to Alexander’s, _I love you_ and _I didn’t_ and _I wouldn’t,_ again and again and again until Alex acquiesces and nods, until he presses up against Thomas of his own volition with a _fuck, fuck, fuck I'm sorry, god, fuck, sorry._ He says it again, insistently into Alex's mouth until Alex is writhing on his fingers with a _please, Thomas please._ He says it over and over  until Alex is wrapped tight around him where he belongs, legs around his waist and up against the wall, crying out with his head tipped back while Thomas tries to put enough of himself back inside Alex that he can’t ever try to sever himself like that again. Alex clings; holds Thomas to him with arms wrapped around his neck and fingers digging into his shoulders tight enough to actually hurt like Thomas was the one that was fucking going anywhere and Thomas hopes it scars, little bloody crescent moon tattoos on his skin like a roadmap of where Alex’s hands should be.

They prickle and burn his skin later, when he dons his shirt again - when Alex has shot him one last, unsettled frown and left - those, and the marks on his neck that he leaves visible. That he presses his fingers to just to feel them hurt a little more. That James purses his lips at when he returns to the table.

 _ Because he scratches,_ Lafayette had answered with an amused set to his mouth when he’d come to Thomas privately with narrowed eyes and asked why Alex had requested he retire some old nickname, whether Thomas had had a hand in  making him do that and Thomas had firstly snorted, because nobody else seemed to realise that he was incapable of  _ making _ Alexander do anything. He’d denied it, hadn’t even realised it had existed but once he had he’d asked  _ why the fuck do you call him that anyway? _

He’d thought he’d maybe end that day dropping from two friends to one when Lafayette had answered with those words; Thomas would try not to hurt him for something that might have happened years ago but couldn’t fathom sitting opposite the man over dinner, unable to stop imagining Alex’s bitten down nails clawing at his back in pleasure, without wanting to make him bleed, no matter how dear a friend. It must have accidentally shown on his face or more likely in his stony silence because Lafayette had wrinkled his nose; _ugh, v_ _ous cul grincheux, Thomas, no. Alexander and I have shared many drunken altercations, he forgoes throwing punches for scratching and biting like a feline. Though I hardly needed to know it extended beyond a fight, thank you for that disturbing image._

He’d been right though and Thomas is in no doubt that Alex would have gone right for his eyes if he’d felt threatened, he'd have had a knee to the balls too, and he’s  _ proud _ of that. It pisses him off that James questions him enough to look at those marks on his neck like he’s not thought this through, like they’re not perfect bait, like they’re not evidence that Alexander is something wild and fearless and wonderful.

At least his irritation doesn’t go completely to waste; Reynolds mouths off, exchanges almost-raised-eyebrows with Jeffrey and Boothe before he does so and while Thomas can only make the example of Reynolds right now, he now knows who he needs to keep his eyes on, to steadily work on breaking or replacing before they start to conspire. If he was feeling generous he might have quirked a lip at James to reassure him, to say  _ this was the plan _but he’s feeling the fucking opposite of generous and he doesn’t want to look at James at all and so he doesn’t.

~~~

If Knox pales when he sees Thomas it’s nothing compared to what his face does when Thomas seats himself on a dining chair, gestures for Knox to join him and slowly places the scavenged ruby on the table between them.

“Tell me everything.” Thomas says. It’s not a request.

It comes out calm, as always, doesn’t betray the misplaced ice cold fury still stabbing his gut. Henry’s voice shakes enough for the both of them but he complies eventually, says  _ just asked him to do me a little favour _and _Madison said you needed to make sure _ and then because he’s quick enough to catch on to the situation; _boss I swear I thought it had come from you. _As they go on he seems buoyed on by the fact that Thomas hasn’t hurt him yet, like he doesn’t realise Thomas is sparing him his own punishment for his part in this in lieu of the inevitable one James has unwittingly passed down to him.

Thomas is thorough, demands every little detail in a hard flat tone, despite already knowing the finer points of this story by now. He needs to know for sure if anyone besides Knox knows that James orchestrated this. He needs to know if anyone even knows what he’s done. He needs to know whether he’s mistaken and anyone else is in on this. He needs to know everything.

He won’t be able to ask follow up questions if he misses anything. 

Knox is almost,  _ almost _ back on an even keel, obviously assuming that James is bearing the brunt of this misdemeanour, and Thomas might feel a little guilty about the mislead if he was capable of that, and also if he’d somehow managed to forget one thing.

“Did you hit him?” he asks, voice deceptively pleasant. Henry stiffens and his eyes flick downward as he slumps in resignation. He's smart enough to be as detailed and truthful as Thomas wants him to be, knows not to make Thomas ask him twice, even though he must know he's digging himself into what must be, at the very least, an unpleasant punishment. Thomas  begrudgingly respects it even as he lets it fuel what he’s going to do here.

“One slap, backhand, right hand,” Knox reports slowly, like there’s glass in his mouth. “Only one, boss, I swear, and then I just shook him a bit, 'cause he said my _fucking hand wouldn’t be usable any more if I put it anywhere near his fucking face again_ and to be honest I didn’t fancy calling that bluff.”

Thomas almost smiles in spite of himself, in spite of the red haze in the room and the way he wants to revisit that slap upon Knox a few hundred times over because of course he did. He cocks his head, dangerously curious.

“Did James tell you to hit him, Henry?”

Knox swallows twice to give himself time to think before he speaks. Thomas allows it. It doesn’t matter. “Technically not exactly. Madison said to _rough him up_ but not to hurt him too bad. I took a couple of slaps to fall under that.  _ Just make sure he doesn’t pop off about it,_ he said specifically. Guess-“ he cuts himself off as he stares intently at the jewel on the table and shrugs a resigned shoulder, doesn’t finish his sentence but Thomas hears it anyway.  _ Guess I didn’t do a good enough job. _

“I wouldn’t take it personally. I doubt there’s a thing in the world that would stop Alexander  _ popping off _ his mouth.” Thomas leans back, gestures a careless hand. “How about you get us a drink and we talk about how this is gonna have to play out, huh?”

Thomas’s expensive leather shoes don’t make a noise when he steps into the kitchen behind Knox. He doesn’t feel anything other than tired and pissed off as he puts a hand over his mouth and a knife in his back, quiet and easy like sinking into butter. He doesn’t make the transgression clear before the act on this occasion, there’s no point. It’s not Knox that needs to learn from what’s happened here. He doesn’t even manage to _enjoy_ it which infuriates him even more; it doesn’t feel warranted enough to really crank his gears, he’s not angry enough with Knox to get a real rush from following through. It’s a necessity rather than a deserved punishment and a necessity on James’s behalf to boot and to top it all off he’s not even going to get to go and run blood through Alexander’s hair tonight because he’s got to wash his hands, go home and try not to do the same thing to his best friend first.

He thinks he should probably be more annoyed about his dead gunrunner than that fact but he’s not. It’s not Knox and the relieved expression on his face as he stood and stupidly put his back to Thomas that he can’t stop thinking about as he cleans up after himself, goes home and confronts James. It’s Alex and that horrible, blank, shut-off look in his eyes that Thomas can’t blink away no matter how hard he tries. James isn’t even _s_ _orry,_ clearly doesn’t understand how completely, utterly fucking _u_ _nacceptable _ it would have been if Alex had _stayed_ severed and the fact that he'd caused that look in the first place makes Thomas want to cut something off of _him_ to see how _he_ likes it. 

He can't shake it, that expression, and the weird, quiet feeling of being _alone_ that gnaws his stomach when he thinks about it and he suddenly, fervently needs to see that it's gone. He needs Alexander under his hands, real and present and his and it’s not far off dawn by the time he ends up letting himself into Alexander’s apartment. He almost regrets it until he cracks open the bedroom door and the quiet  _ hey you _ that comes from the mess of bedclothes is as wide awake as Thomas feels and Alex has clearly slept about as much as he has.

“I’m buying you a new bed,” Thomas grumbles to hide his relief as he slides in. 

"No you're not," Alexander says flatly. He doesn't ask what's happened this evening. Thomas had said _ju_ _st let me handle this, please kitten_ and so he had, despite the gritted teeth and stormy face that said he wanted to rain hell down on James himself. Thomas isn’t really sure how they’re going to be in the same room as each other ever again. He isn’t sure whether _ he  _ wants to be in the same room as James for a very long time. Thomas doesn't offer any information either. He wonders whether the obvious effort to keep Alexander away from specifics and details is why James thinks he can't be trusted; that Alex is keeping his hands clean to be able to fuck them over, instead of it being Thomas's shitty attempts to keep Alex plausibly deniable. Alexander hates to outright lie. He would, Thomas knows, for _him_. But he hates it, so if Thomas can do his best to keep him from having to, why wouldn't he? 

"Yours is cheap and lumpy as fuck," Thomas complains instead, reaches out until his hands connect with warm skin. 

“No it’s not, you snobby bastard. No one fucking forced you to come lay in it you know.” Alex snips under his breath and pinches him but grips his hip hard to contrast his words in case Thomas is inclined to turn around and leave. 

He’s not.

He  _ is _ inclined to pull Alexander close; he’s not showered and Thomas can smell himself and traces of their sex on his skin and it finally dissipates the last of the anger behind his eyes. Alex presses himself close, presses his mouth to the tender scratches on his neck and Thomas grunts with the sting of it when Alex licks there and says _I'm sorry_ again until Thomas rolls him onto his back and shuts him up. It’s done with, now.

He knows Alex isn’t apologising for scratching him, wouldn't do that, and Thomas realizes he should probably be feeling his own affronted offence that Alexander even thought him capable of this ruse in the first place but he isn’t. There’s a wicked blind spot there and with that he can acknowledge James’s concerns might have had some founding. Might have, if Thomas was a naive fucking moron who fell in love with just anybody, because he just can’t bring himself to aim any of that at Alex even if some may be warranted, but he’s _not_ a moron and Alex _isn’t_ just anybody and James had any fucking faith in him at all he’d _know_ that. 

If he’d succeeded in this little sabotage Thomas would be down a lover  _ and _ a best friend.

He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to forgive him for that.

~~~

In the end he only excuses James when it’s clear the consequences of his actions are the opposite of his intentions. Thomas is unwavering and Alexander now orbits him almost zealously; Lafayette tells him that Alex refuses to even sit still long enough to entertain his other friends’ bullshit anymore, protects their relationship like it’s sacrosanct and it’s a balm on his raw, tender nerves. Thomas draws him in tight and paints a red line right the way around them and breathes easier knowing neither of them will ever let anything cut its way into that protected little bubble again, and it’s only _then,_ when he knows that all James has done is strengthen and weld and fuel what he meant to crack that he softens and forgives.

He keeps the ruby, slots it into a corner of his wallet because it’s precious now and he can’t abide the thought of cleaning Alexander’s blood off of it and sticking it back into the safe with the others. He has it set in the hilt of a knife for Alex instead, sees Alex rubbing his thumb over it reflexively, gently, whenever it’s in his hand. 

Thomas isn’t sure whether Alex _knows_ it’s the same one, they never discuss it, but that’s when he realises they’ve somehow leaned into it, imbibed it, that it’s become another defining,  cornerstone red of theirs.

He and Alex are burning fire and blood and passion and  rubies. They're red.

One day Thomas will win one of those fights and Alex will let him buy him something shiny without swearing at him, he's sure of it.

Now he wants to see Alexander's hands red in more than one way.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure I'm capable of writing Thomas as anything other than a hopelessly dramatic romantic, even in this verse...  
> ~  
> Translations:  
> vous cul grincheux / you grumpy ass  
> ~  
> [Title inspired by lyric from: Yellow Flicker Beat by Lorde]


End file.
